Come as you are
by AlisLavoisier
Summary: "Just like old times, Castiel?" Dean gasps, making stroke the tongue on the palate, his mouth now kneaded by moans of pleasure.  The Angel decides not to give him any answer, simply, rather, to keep nails into the soft skin of his back, hot and naked.


Author: Alis Lavosier.  
Title: Come as you are.  
Word Count: 800, approximately.  
Fandom: Supernatural.  
Pairing / Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel.  
Rating: Red.  
Notes: One-Shot, Full, Slash, Angst, Song-fic.  
Written on the basis of the song 'Come as you are'; Nirvana.  
Disclamair: This fanfiction is not for profit. (Those who set out to write a destiel thinking of making us money? At best, hopefully in a few reviews. Nanana.)  
If you do not like Destiel, do not read this fanfiction. (Why do people hate certain things if the law? I ask myself this question every time I read an insult or similar in a fanfiction. People are strange.)  
Enjoy it.  
I'M ITALIAN SORRY FOR THE MISTAKES IN THE TEXT.

PLEASE, HELP ME TO CLEAR ITS.

**Come as you are.**

"Just like old times, Castiel?"  
Dean gasps, making stroke the tongue on the palate, his mouth now kneaded by moans of pleasure.  
The Angel decides not to give him any answer, simply, rather, to keep nails into the soft skin of his back, hot and naked.

**Come as you are, as you were,  
as I want you to be.  
As a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy.**

Just like old times. Hanging, clinging to each other, on the cold floor, souls and legs intertwined in a gesture of mutual belonging and undisputed.  
As what they now are, as what they were, two lovers who feed on the heat and the salvation of the other.  
As old friends or bitter enemies, like the old days, when their love were the collimation of their life, as now, while nothing has changed, or maybe nothing is what was left.

**Take your time, hurry up,  
the choice is yours, do not be late.**

It's been a long time since that distant day, from the stab straight to the heart of Castiel, truncated by that breath of Dean.  
But the time has flown by, and now blurred.  
The Hunter, his face beaded with glittering beads of sweat, groans, burying his face in the crook of the neck of the Angel, and with all his strength, heat pushes the pelvis, taking his lover, completely.

**Take a rest, as a friend, as an old memory, memory, memory, memory.**

It had been a really long time since the last time they found themselves in that situation.  
Among the moans and choked requests for more and deeper contact, there is a fleeting glance.  
In the past, they would either quietly paused to contemplate the amazing irises of the other, brilliant and also subjected to lust, but, this time, did not happen.  
You do not even realize that what they had is fading into the ether like the scent of a flower wandering.  
Everything was now only an old nostalgic memory.

**How doused in mud, soaked in bleach,  
as I want you to be.  
As a trend, as a friend, as an old memory.  
**

Two lovers in a breath, synchronous.  
As synchronicity in which they were traveling their essences, once. Now, every lunge a sigh of pleasure, issued in unison, dampened only by the skin of his companion, but nothing more. Once they were something better. Once upon a time.. they loved each other, without any restrictions. Now have some of them escaped, perhaps the hope, perhaps the soul. This is just sex, no emotions.  
Two buildings, the magnificence of a love that created them one essence, one scent, was now gone.

**Memory, memory, memory.**

Gone, like the memories that inspired their hearts, their minds, their hopes. Memories crumbled and drag in an icy wind that cut through the skin and made her bleed. Feeling that now try Dean.  
Empty.  
Black  
Try to hold on to a memory, while in lunge is pushed into the body of the Angel entrancing, but the only thing he can do is grab your hips and tighten lover, as if they were his only lifeline to life. Dean moans and screams, squeezes and pushes, not caring of evil, physical, that brings to the bird. He does not care. All he wants is the orgasm, slave of lust, Castiel is a means, just a body, to be exploited.

**And I swear that I do not have a gun.  
No, I do not have a gun, No, I do not have a gun.**

Even Castiel is going to heat of his seed the abdomen of the Hunter, growling, excited, only to shudder slightly, shaken by a bitter chill that descends along every inch of her back, and that ends at the pelvis, making Dean explode in a guttural and hoarse gasp.  
Followed by moments' where their moans and heavy breathing fills the air, moments in which their cardiac muscles quivered at the same frequency, long minutes in which the two are lost in life and pain in the heat of the other. Helpless to his companion, by a narrow and wide indisputable sense of belonging.

**memory, memory, memory, memory do not have a gun.  
And I swear that I do not have a gun.  
No, I do not have a gun.**

Everything has an end.  
Dean falls sharply on the body of the Angel, only to still emit some slight gasp, before falling asleep, destroyed, chest lover. There was not a word, during the act. Not a consonant 'I love you', no, nothing. Castiel, motionless, staring out the window and think. The darkness swallows everything out there. But are likely to swallow something also in that room, in the hearts of those bodies lying on the ground. The Angel sighs and slips away from under Dean. It plays quickly, and, before leaving, does fall lover's eyes, breathing light, tousled hair, the skin still flushed, untranslatable expression on his face. He's sleeping, trembling slightly, it seems to be cold. But Castiel does not understand what the human evidence for him if he still has feelings. He shakes his head and takes off his trench coat, using it to cover the young Winchester.  
"Just like old times, Dean.."  
He whispers, his voice faint and trembling, kissing his forehead, hoping that among them is really 'like old times', but, believing now little, and finally disappears, leaving him, only the scent on the skin of the Hunter.  
Dean narrows in the garment of the companion, snuggling under it, and was not sleeping, He heard the words of the Angel.  
But even he knows if nothing has changed between them.  
But, at least, knows that Castiel will return, if he want his trench coat back, and already this is a certainty for the young hunter.  
His Angel will come back to him, and all the rest does not matter.

**Memory, memory.**

-AlisLavoisier.


End file.
